


Planes of Solidarity

by katmayfair



Series: Autumn of Malcontent [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Rockstar AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katmayfair/pseuds/katmayfair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrote this to limber up one day and it seemed fun, so I thought I might share. Twelve's the rockstar, Clara's his manager. I'm not exactly creative, sometimes. Room to keep going with it if I feel like it one day, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Planes of Solidarity

“Oh, grow up,” Clara shrugged, shutting the hotel room door.  
“Grow up!” The Doctor sputtered. He radiated indignance, sprawled out across the lounge with his boots up on the expensive upholstery. “Grow up, when they want me to perform in my underwear on national telly? I'm not the one who has to grow up here.”  
Clara sighed. Sometimes she wondered if taking the job as his manager had been a good life decision. The Doctor – full name James Robert Smith – slightly ageing rockstar, far too sensible for his career and slightly too tall to really keep under control.  
His phone chimed in his pocket. He fished it out, took one look at it, and scowled.  
“Jack. Just heard, so excited to see more of you. I mean-” He glanced up at Clara, still standing by the door with her arms folded, resigned. “You seem less upset than I am about this.”  
She shrugged.  
“You know I can pull the plug on this if I really need to. And... Trust me, nobody will think of you any differently of you. You're a man, your reputation is already unpredictable, and some of the fans might actually wet themselves. Which would be funny.”  
He broke eye contact and sighed, running a hand through his hair, mussing already uncontrolled grey curls.  
“But-”  
“You're a rockstar,” she interrupted. “Self-conscious should not be part of your vocabulary.”  
“And yet...”  
“I know. But hey,” she said. “Jack is totally attractive. Minibar?”  
“Yeah, whatever.” He glanced over as she wandered over on five-inch heels, grabbed the bottle of whisky that was on the table, and found a pair of glasses in the fridge. She held the bottle up to the light  
“Bruichladdich, anyone?”  
“Well, it can't hurt.” He took the generous glass that Clara handed him and swirled the amber around with a flick of his wrist, watching it coat the sides of the glass and melt down, anticipating for a moment before taking a swig.  
“Better?” Clara asked. She'd perched on the desk, legs crossed and her glass already noticeably depleted.  
“Marginally.”  
“Good. Look,” she reasoned carefully, “You're one of the least steerable clients I've ever had, and you didn't kick up a fuss over this until we were out of the room with the execs. I've never had doubts that you'd put your foot down when you had to. What gives?”  
The Doctor scowled into his glass and put one arm up behind his head so he wasn't staring at the ceiling.  
“It's... Nothing I wasn't expecting when all this kicked off. Not entirely dignified, but part of the circle of life. But after what happened to Amy last week...” he shook his head. “It seems wrong.”  
“Ah.”  
“Yeah.”  
“You know, I was kind of hoping it was just you being shy.”  
“As in, get some cocaine and off I go?”  
“Something like that.”  
“Yeah, it's not that.”  
“Well, fuck,” Clara said with feeling.  
The Doctor looked up at her properly again, distrust blossoming across his eyes.  
“Don't you care?” he said.  
“What?”  
“Amy is being put through the shit, and you...”  
“No! I care. I absolutely care. But I know that she has the world's most capable team behind her, and I've got you to worry about. The stuff being written about her is disgusting, and it makes me sick... But not when I'm on the clock. I'm a professional.” She paused. “And she's got you on side. That makes it easier, on a personal level. The way she got torn apart is still horrifying, but she's going to be okay.”  
“You're right.”  
“Of course I am.”  
“She's got me on side.”  
Clara could sense a plan brewing, made of Scottish solidarity and frustration, distilled in whisky.  
“And what are you going to do on her side?”  
“I don't think you should know before it happens,” he said.  
“How much damage control are we going to need?”  
“Eh,” a shrug. “Not actually that much, I hope.”  
“Good.” She reached over and grabbed the bottle, then leaned across to top both their glasses up. Pondering her drink for a moment, she held it aloft, and declared, “To being right.”  
“Yes.” He paused. “May we continue to be so. Or something like that.”


End file.
